


No One Will Be Watching Us (Why Don't We Do It)

by theswearingkind



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-15
Updated: 2010-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 07:00:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2141514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theswearingkind/pseuds/theswearingkind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And the long and short of it was, it rained. It rained, and then it rained some more, and then when it got done raining, it rained, and honestly, Adam had always thought Burning Man was going to be his extreme-weather camping experience <i>du jour</i>, but if it had been ridiculously, blisteringly, overwhelmingly hot there, at least he hadn’t ruined three pairs of boots just trying to get to the shows, and the humidity had been, like, negative twelve percent, whereas in Manchester that weekend, even the rare moment of not-rain was marked by the kind of life-sapping, soul-crushing, sticky-wet dampness that every Southerner he’d ever met – certainly every one he’d ever fucked – laughed at people from other places for not believing was real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No One Will Be Watching Us (Why Don't We Do It)

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for team_cockbert's 101 Places to Fornicate Meme back in 2010, for the prompt of "tent." Warnings for recreational drug use and the loosest possible definition of dub-con.

And the long and short of it was, it rained. It rained, and then it rained some more, and then when it got done raining, it rained, and honestly, Adam had always thought Burning Man was going to be his extreme-weather camping experience _du jour_ , but if it had been ridiculously, blisteringly, overwhelmingly hot there, at least he hadn’t ruined three pairs of boots just trying to get to the shows, and the humidity had been, like, negative twelve percent, whereas in Manchester that weekend, even the rare moment of not-rain was marked by the kind of life-sapping, soul-crushing, sticky-wet dampness that every Southerner he’d ever met – certainly every one he’d ever fucked – laughed at people from other places for not believing was real.

(In a moment of extreme optimism, he’d talked Kris into parking in one of the lots farther out and then hiking in to the tents-only area so that they could be closer to Centeroo, but by the time the tent got its fourth leak he was regretting that decision. A few campsites away was a wonderful, dry, _water-tight_ minivan – “You made fun of me for bringing a minivan the whole drive here,” Kris pointed out, “I don’t think you get to sweet-talk her now.” – and Adam was beginning to despair. He’d woken up that morning to find his favorite watch, the chunky leather-and-platinum one with the diamond-studded face, facedown in a puddle that hadn’t been there when he’d gone to sleep, and he would have cried, but he figured he needed to conserve his fluids.)

The only good thing about it raining was that even _his_ hair couldn’t survive it – which was not a good thing in and of itself, but between the complete lack of product, the utter futility of fucking around with eyeliner in this makeup-melting heat, and the fact that everyone was kind of wandering around in ponchos, half-blinded by the downpour and having to squint to see ten feet in front of themselves, he managed to pass most of the weekend blissfully, genuinely anonymous. Adam loved his job, loved his fans, but it was kind of freeing to spend four days in a place where no one paid him even the slightest bit of attention.

Freeing, and not at all disappointing. Honestly.

Similarly not-disappointing was Kris’s utter refusal to sanction any type of sex in the tent, on the grounds that the sites hadn’t been bushwhacked and they were liable to roll over a rock at any moment, and also that it was less than three feet flap-to-flap and he didn’t want to be _those_ neighbors (or for intimate details about their sex life to show up on the internet in a couple of days), and all Adam’s protests that it was _Bonnaroo, everyone_ was having sex – some of them didn’t even bothering getting inside the tent! – and also that no one seemed to know or care who they were or what T.V. show they’d been on, were for naught.

Still, Bonnaroo was pretty great; he was getting to see bands he’d wanted to see for years, and when he managed to lure Kris into the Headphone Dance Party tent with the promise of funnel cake afterward, they hadn’t even been dancing for ten minutes before the DJ put on a track from Adam’s first record – apparently without even knowing Adam was there, which was all kinds of awesome. Adam could really see why people talked about it being a hippie paradise; the whole vibe was just really chill and open and loving, and he had enough fashion inspiration for the next two tours, at least.

Plus the weed was awesome. And everywhere.

Adam had been comfortably blazed on and off for the whole weekend, but Kris had held off; it wasn’t that he didn’t like pot, he said, just that it made him really hazy, and he wanted to be sharp for the shows. Privately Adam thought that was crap; in all the years they’d known each other, he’d never seen Kris toke up even once – which was a shame, really, because Kris wasn’t much of a drinker, normally, but he was funny and sloppy when he let loose, and Adam was willing to bet he’d make a _hilarious_ stoner, the kind who talked to trees and tried to pet other people’s hair.

But whatever, he didn’t want to, and it didn’t really matter why – especially not when there were shows to watch from noon until four in the morning every day. Miraculously, the rains stopped early Sunday afternoon, and it was still clear by the time the headliner took the stage that night, the sky pitch-dark and dotted with stars and tens of thousands of people spread out across the field, screaming and clapping as loud as they could.

Kris had been on cloud nine all day, insisting that they get to What Stage as soon as the gates opened so that they could be as close as possible, and his face when the band played the opening notes of _Hello, Goodbye_ to start the set was incredible and hilarious, _rapturous_ , and Adam had never been a huge Beatles fan, to be honest, but it was still fucking amazing, hemmed in by people on every side and pressed close to Kris’s back and less than a hundred feet from _Paul McCartney_ , Jesus.

After about an hour, a joint materialized from somewhere, changing hands through the crowd, and Adam took a long hit – and shit, it was good stuff, strong and smoky-sweet, the best he’d had all weekend, and he breathed in, holding it for as long as he could, feeling it burn a path down into his lungs. And it was good, God, it felt so good, so good to be here, so good with Kris, and he wasn’t even thinking about what he was doing, really, he just reached up and took hold of Kris’s chin, tilted his head back to an angle he could reach, and kissed him, exhaling the smoke into Kris’s open mouth.

Kris made a little protesting noise right at first, something that probably meant _you are not a Beatle, kindly let go of me_ , but then he melted into it, tongue flicking out to taste, licking the traces of the smoke from behind his teeth, and when he pulled back he licked his lips, too, like he was making sure he hadn’t lost any of it, the taste of the pot or of Adam.

It was too loud to hear anything but the music, anyway, so instead of asking, Adam just held the joint up. He’d only meant to hand it to Kris if he wanted it, but Kris smirked at him and leaned forward instead, his mouth bumping up against Adam’s fingers as he inhaled long and lazy before turning his eyes back to the stage.

It was probably bad concert form, but they shared the rest of the joint instead of passing it on. There wasn’t much left anyway, just a few hits; Kris finished it off by leaning back again, lips a perfect o, to breathe into Adam’s waiting mouth – and Adam could only imagine how it looked, the two of them pressed up tight, necks craned toward one another, kissing wide and open, smoke escaping from around the edges of their mouths.

Kris’s mouth was wet and sweet and tasted like weed, and Adam was really starting to get into it when he heard the opening riff of Come Together; the crowd let out a roar so loud that it actually shook the stage, and Adam thought for sure that was it, he’d lost Kris for the rest of the show – but Kris barely even seemed to notice. Instead, he reached back and twisted his fingers through Adam’s hair, tugging Adam’s head into a better angle and just – just fucking _went to town_ , kissing him hot and slow and dirty, tongue mapping out the ridges of the roof of Adam’s mouth.

The first chorus had come and gone before Kris pulled back, and when he did, his eyes were sleepy and half-lidded but shockingly intent, and Adam felt his cock, which had been at half-mast pretty much since their first hit, get even harder inside his jeans. Kris felt it, too, apparently, dropping his head onto Adam’s shoulder and grinding back into his dick shamelessly.

Adam wasn’t sure what exactly had gotten into Kris – he knew the guy liked McCartney, sure, but this seemed a little beyond that – but whatever, seriously, because Kris was hard, too, tenting out the fabric of his jeans, and Adam wasn’t so much inclined to question his good fortune as he was to blindly accept it, so he slid a hand down from Kris’s waist, where they’d been resting for most of the set, to cup over the bulge, and squeezed.

Kris let out a moan that was audible even over the music, seeming torn between arching forward into Adam’s hand and pushing back into his groin. Adam was pretty okay with either option, to be honest – but he was decidedly _less_ okay with Kris reaching down and prying his hand away, shit, because – well, no fucking shit it wasn’t a good idea for them to be doing that there, that was a recipe for disaster, but still, he thought they’d both been pretty into it, and it was going to make for one wicked case of blue balls.

But then Kris laced their fingers together and said, kind of strangled, “Come on,” just loud enough that Adam could hear it, and started to tug him sideways – sideways _out of the crowd, away from the stage_ – and Adam’s first thought, ridiculously, was that Kris must have felt sick or something, because there was an actual, honest-to-God _Beatle_ on the stage, and the Kris that Adam knew would have taken a knife to the chest before he’d leave that show. But leaving they were, Kris pulling insistently at Adam’s arm, and everyone they passed was giving them weird looks because they were _walking out on Paul McCartney_ , what the fuck, but Kris just kept pulling, weaving them in and out of the crowd and around the perimeter of the field, and then oh, oh, leaks be damned, Adam was so glad that they’d decided to camp in the tent-only area because Kris was already unzipping it and shoving Adam inside.

Adam landed hard next to his sleeping bag and barely had time to notice that, hey, Kris was right, there really was a huge rock underneath his back, before Kris re-zipped the tent and just fucking _pounced_ on him, straddling his hips and grinding down, leaning over Adam’s body and licking into his mouth.

“Kris, I – what,” Adam said intelligently, but what else was he supposed to say when Kris was sitting back up, peeling his shirt off over his head and fumbling with his fly, fingers clumsy as he tried to work the buttons.

“Adam, come on, work with me here,” Kris half-moaned, skin flushed all over and covered in a light sheen of sweat. “I walked out on Paul McCartney for this, man.”

And – oh, Adam thought, and then grinned, recovering, because he _got it_ now. “That was all you, baby. Nobody made you leave,” he said, pushing himself up into a sitting position. “And – hey, allow me,” he added, working Kris’s fly the rest of the way open, then tipping him over backward so that Kris was the one flat on his back, spread out in front of Adam like a buffet.

“That hurt,” Kris protested mildly, but it didn’t stop him from lifting his hips so that Adam could strip his pants off of him – a process that took approximately forever, since Adam had finally won the battle to keep Kris in the tightest pants possible at all times and also because Adam kept stopping to lean down and suck bruises into the skin he was uncovering, leaving purpled marks at the top of Kris’s thigh, the crook of his knee, and it was just really fun and kind of giggly and sweet because of course, _of course_ Kris got horny when he was stoned, _of course_ he did.

It wasn’t until Adam looked back up that he realized he’d basically missed the forest for the trees, sex-wise, because – Jesus Christ, because Kris _wasn’t wearing underwear_ , hadn’t been wearing underwear all day, apparently, and just like that it went from hot in kind of a funny way to hot in a fucking brutally sexy way. Kris seemed to feel it, too, the moment it tipped over the edge and stopped being something to laugh about; it was almost too dark to see in the tent, but Adam caught the expression on Kris’s face slip from horny and half-amused into open arousal, and his voice when he said, “Adam – Adam, come on, please,” was yearning in a way it hadn’t been in a while, like he was dying for it, like he was going to die if it he couldn’t get it.

Kris’s hands were pushing at Adam’s shirt, trying to skim it off, and Adam was trying to unzip his jeans and work them off his hips without actually having to stop touching Kris, and so there were a few moments where things got twisted and tangled up, but finally, _finally_ , they were both naked, skin against skin, and the humidity was actually serving a purpose, because they were both so slick with sweat that it felt good just to thrust against each other, cocks sliding together hot and easy against the skin of their stomachs.

Adam would have been happy to keep going like that for the rest of the night, however long it took, however long they could make it last, but then Kris broke off from licking at the column of Adam’s throat to gasp, “Adam, please, you – you should fuck me now, I want you to fuck me, please,” and, well, Adam had been raised right, he couldn’t very well say no to a request like that, not when it was phrased so politely. 

Kris had laid down the no-sex rule before they left, so nothing but sheer optimism could explain why Adam had brought along a box of condoms and a bottle of lube, but, oh, he was so, so thankful that he had, especially when he slicked up two of his fingers and pressed them in, Kris incredibly, _supernaturally_ hot and tight around his fingers, and Adam scissored and twisted, worked him open for a few minutes before he took pity on Kris, gave in to his increasingly desperate pantings and crooked his fingers upward – and Kris moaned, loud and wanton, and oh yes, that was it, right there, that was it.

“Okay, I’m – I’m good, come on,” Kris said, breathing harshly, “come on, Adam, now,” and so Adam pulled his fingers out and rolled the condom on, slicking himself up with lube, and then lined his cock up and pushed in with one long, smooth thrust, bottoming out with a groan. It felt – Jesus, it felt insane, Kris strung tight as a bow underneath him, still riding his buzz, thighs locked tight around Adam’s hips and shuddering and shaking with every thrust, and Adam lost track of everything as he fucked him, forgot everything but the feel of Kris’s skin, Kris’s mouth a scorching, burning thing against his neck, Kris’s hands on the small of his back, his ass, like he was trying to pull Adam even farther inside him, and all around them the music floated out, dreamy and soaked – _and in the end the love you take is equal to the love you make_ – and Adam got a hand between them and wrapped his fingers around Kris’s cock, and that was what did it, Kris clamping down hard and impossibly tight around his cock and coming and coming and coming while Adam pressed deep and stayed there, face buried in the curve of Kris’s throat, and felt himself fall off the edge seconds after Kris.

“Adam,” Kris said after a few minutes. “You’re kind of crushing me, man.”

“Mmm,” Adam mumbled. “S’too bad.”

Kris showed no mercy, poking him in the side, the delicate spot right below his ribcage. “Seriously, you have to get off.”

Adam grinned; Kris made it so _easy_ sometimes. “I already got off, Kris. You were there. But thanks for your concern.”

Adam felt rather than saw Kris roll his eyes. “That was terrible,” Kris said. “Seriously, I can’t believe you just said that.”

“Hey,” Adam shrugged, “if you’re just gonna set them up like that, I’m gonna take them.”

Kris shook his head. “I can’t believe I left McCartney for you,” he said, but he was smiling, so Adam could at least stop worrying that tomorrow Kris was going to decide that that particular decision was all Adam’s fault and break up with him or something.

Still, it was Kris and it was McCartney, so, “We could try to make the encore?” Adam offered. “We could probably catch at least the last couple songs.”

Kris considered it for a moment, then shook his head again. “Nah,” he said. “I’m good here – but hey,” he added, kind of hopefully. “You got any more pot?”


End file.
